


alyssum

by vegetas



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Gen, M/M, Major Illness, the slow slow death continues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 19:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/pseuds/vegetas
Summary: henry is, and remains, awake





	alyssum

**Author's Note:**

> this is from a tumblr mini-fic prompt of "what you said when you thought i was asleep" and i just LOVE to be sad, don't i??
> 
> "names of horses" by donald hall is one of my favorite poems of all time and now i am unable to dissociate it from edward little and that is as much to blame as anything else. all of the stuff about little's family is just my own imagining. 
> 
> unbeta'd as usual - i live & die by my own sword!

> When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
> 
> one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
> 
> led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond  
> and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin  
>   
> 
> 
> _names of horses / donald hall_

Henry would know his rough-sliding step anywhere.

The man walks noisily, his boots skittering in the shale like they are too big and he must shuffle to keep them from pulling right off of his legs. 

Perhaps they are, he wonders. The man’s dropped a stone at least, and feet are no different from anywhere else. Still, it must be significant judging by the way they have all doubled up on socks and stockings, paring them from the dead and shamelessly distributing them amongst the living. He himself wears three or four at a time. 

“Tommy -”

Henry, honestly, wishes he could turn over and tell Little to let Jopson be. He doesn’t sleep anyway, and the sound of Jopson humming and moaning and sometimes yelling out from his sack does not bother him for the most part - if he concentrates enough on other thoughts it merely becomes another part of the landscape. Jopson is a slightly louder, closer, wind, but no more than shearing noise all the same. 

He remembers the fucking guano; how he learned to sleep with the sound of the birds. Their harrassing calls and the ammonia, and how his peace with it drove James mad with jealousy. When concentrating he is there, and the sea is as it should be - a sea. Not ice. 

Little’s nightly interruptions break him from such trances. 

“Tommy,” it’s soft now, as Little is crouched down on the far side of the tent, and there is no mistaking it. Jopson is breathing heavy and fast. Awake, in the loosest terms.    
  
“You’re carrying on again, Tom,” Little whispers. There’s a brief struggle and Henry stares at the edge of the tent, a dull sound meeting his upturned ear which means that Jopson has landed a delirious hit or two. 

“Easy,” Little murmurs, voice never thinning. “Easy -,” 

Even in the dregs of this intimate moment he has been exclusive party to Henry feels he hardly knows the man he can hear speaking low, and soft, and patiently at his back _.  _ So pitifully small were the things that they had in common; their employment being nearly singular in that regard. 

_ George is a good sport, but Little? I know little about him -  _

The pun was so bad, and Henry bared his teeth at Graham, breath fogging about their mouths and nearly crackling in the air. They were side by side on deck, staring at  _ Terror _ in the gloom of the night, her far lights dim. It was like looking at some forsaken castle, its spires whittled to the post.

_ He has little to tell… _ Henry replied, and Graham gave him a wide-eyed look of false astonishment. 

  
_ I do not envy those Terrors _ , he’d sighed.  _ Save for their spirit _ , came the very careful amendment, and Henry’d laughed outright at that. He had the feeling that Lt. Edward Little was one of those men gifted with an unrelenting serious nature. He was James’ pick, he knew, though it too felt like one of James’ asides. 

Wouldn’t Graham be pleased to know that Edward Little could take a whipping well. They’d practically betted on as much. Though not in such circumstances.    
  
Not from  _ Jopson _ certainly. Jopson, who is neither steward nor lieutenant any more, eclipsing either to become nothing but a watery reflection of the tidy man he once was wandering forgetfully through his duties before he falls into fitful, reeling, nightmares. Vesconte has watched Little dauntlessly shepherd him like the poor, mad, animal he is becoming. He slinks along after him - shoulders sunk and head low between them - steering Jopson here and there before anyone can catch too wise, doling out pointless tasks to keep him even tempered and occupied. 

_Is it true, Edward, that your family is in the business of horses?_ _I had heard of your Grandfather, but for some reason it never quite sank in till this moment that it was the same_ _Little._

Sir John squinted appreciatively at Little in the way Vesconte supposed people did when they realize a Naval Officer came from a long line of cavalrymen. 

  
_ Yes, sir, _ Little confirmed, fidgeting with his fingers slightly around the handle of his knife.  _ He rode under Colonel Hale in 1775. My eldest brother is named for him - Hale that is. _

  
_ At Bunker Hill? _ James sounded, and Little nodded once, earning a low  _ tsk _ of honest impressment on James’ end. Henry smirked into his food.  _ No wonder you can keep your wits, Edward, _ he continued, shaking his head.  _ Your family must be known for Cold bloods. _

_ That is correct - _

_ Cold bloods _ ? Sir John interceded, his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked to James. 

_ Workhorses.  _ Crozier rasped, buried in his plate.

Henry and James exchanged a look over their wine. Sir John’s frowning, floppy face turned its attention to Edward once more, the quiet man clearing his throat.   
  


_ My eldest brother, Hale, has taken a latent interest in quarter horses - hot bloods, Sir. Referring to their temperment - good for riding. The best racing stock comes from American horse country.  _ Sir John’s eyebrows raised and, whether he sensed the scrutiny or not, Little quickly re calibrated. 

_ We also breed British spotted ponies. _

_ I’ve had the pleasure of seeing spotted ponies, _ Hodgson sounded, turning his glass on the tabletop with a rueful smile.  _ Handsome little things. Like a proper leopard they are, Sir - or one off those coach dogs. _

_ Oh, those plum pudding dogs? _ Irving said with all his impervious innocence, and they all tittered. 

_ He means dalmations _ , James remarked to Sir John, leaning over. 

Even Crozier huffing slightly into his fist with a laugh - 

  
“E-Edward?” Jopson makes a sticking, clicking sound in his throat, mid-cough.

  
“Yes, pet,” Little replies, voice flooding with relief. “It’s only me.”

“Edward,” Jopson repeats, catching his breath, and there is the dry sound of skin against skin.“I t-thought you were the devil…,” the man’s teeth clack together in a shiver. 

  
“I must look a fright...” Little makes a forgiving, miserable sound akin to a chuckle. 

“No, never,” Jopson manages, Little hushing him more insistently. 

"It's alright my sweetheart," Edward murmurs in response to something Vesconte cannot discern. "No harm, see? I did not even feel it."

“Edward...that man is talking about me -,” Jopson hisses, stomping out the tenderness not even a second later. “Again - I cannot sleep -,”

Henry shivers with more than cold, drawing the cover close. 

“You must settle, Jopson, or you’ll wake the entire camp,” Little says, suddenly quite loud, and Henry feels his breathing involuntarily pause, his shoulders stiffening under his blanket. “Will you settle, if I lie next to you and you can get warm?”

Jopson says something unintelligible, and Henry can feel Little’s eyes roaming over his back and he takes a long, measured, breath. 

There’s a rustle and he’s certain that Little is lying down with him, as he promised, as he does every night. 

Distantly, as Jopson falls into feverish sleep again, Henry remembers his uncle standing in the stable with a pistol where a rabid dog was tied to a post.

“Did you ever put down a horse?” Vesconte rasps, thinking of the animal’s heaving side and bloody foaming mouth. It did not even know to be afraid. 

“Yes,” Little says, after a tenuous moment that feels as though it is an hour. His voice is meek. “It is best if you may do it so that they tip into the grave,” he adds, barely more than a whisper to not wake the man in his arms. 

Vesconte nods dumbly on what remains of his pillow, and closes his eyes, imagining Edward Little disposed of his threadbare jacket, sleeves rolled up, on some sandy bank with a spade. 

How high and hot the sun is, and how diligently Little works. How peaceful the river running alongside full of deep cold water rushing by in the rolling green country, the roar rising in his ears. How sweet the frothy white flowers are in their clumps at the bank. 

How long and neat the pit is; about as wide as the two of them - Little and Jopson - as they lie side by side. 


End file.
